


Clipped Wings

by BelowBedlam



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Character Death, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-11
Updated: 2016-02-11
Packaged: 2018-05-18 01:54:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5893639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BelowBedlam/pseuds/BelowBedlam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Astaarit is one of many to find her end by the Inquisitor's hand when the Viddasala invades. But she is one of few to know the Inquisitor's kindness. It does a dying slave little good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clipped Wings

“Sorry.”

Astaarit has always wondered how the _bas-saarebas_ manage to live without shackles and masks, without needle and thread; this woman’s mouth hangs open, her face contorted in distress as if she isn’t about to try and kill both _saarebas_ and _arvaarad_. As if she truly is sorry for what she is about to try and do.

 For some reason, this sends shivers through Astaarit that she knows are from fear and not her leash. She thinks that she believes this _basra_. That this _basra_ is going to kill her.

  _Astaarit._ She gained the name when her magic’s manifestation lifted her from the ground like a feather, and she’d known somehow that she would end up here. In this time, place, with this woman. Inquisitor, whose magic sloughs off of her like shed skin on every inhale, thick and green like the abomination splitting her palm.

 The purpose is simple: to kill the Inquisitor, whose magic is no longer necessary. She is too dangerous to be kept alive, even this far south.

  _Sorry._

Astaarit learns common in start-stops from her _arvaarad_ , who was Ben-Hassrath before she found new purpose. Maybe this is why she is so angry at the _tal-vashoth_ who used to be Ben-Hassrath. Famous, in Seheron. Shadow and Storm and Earth-Quake. Whatever was right about him has since been broken: look at how he moves unwieldy, his steps guided by nothing but the smell of the woman’s scent, no doubt. Incomprehensible.

 The once- _hissrad_ glares. He thinks he frightens those under the Qun? Astaarit has known nothing more frightening than those with mouths that recite doctrines, that say Koslun’s name with reverence and longing.

 The woman suddenly pulls on the Fade, and Astaarit rises to the sensation. This one pulls it apart as though it was her that had sewn it shut, as if she and the Fade were friendly. The _arvaarad_ pulls the leash, and Astaarit pulls on the Fade. Rips it open, feels the power coalesce over her skin like a film of sweat.

 The woman-Inquisitor- pauses, watching Astaarit with a soft expression.

 The _arvaarad_ pulls the leash harder, subtler; he speaks to the _tal-vashoth_ defector in harsh tones, berating him, telling him things meant to hurt a heart with no true anchor, not without the Qun.

 Without the Qun. It is a foreign concept, it is incomprehensible any yet Astaarit remembers, oh, she remembers something. Wings. Of her childhood she remember little beyond an engraved image of wings somewhere within the _tamassran’s_ compound. It had to be there; _imekari_ went few other places. But then she’d risen into the air like a feather, and that was that. Everything after tastes of mildewed thread, blood, and metal.

 The Qun, she knows, is the only thing that keeps her feet on the ground, but the completion she is supposed to feel is what feels like the dream, the fleeting memory. Not her wish to fly.

 Thoughts like these are what got her lips sewn, she must remind herself harshly. _Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit._

The Inquisitor’s magic, crackling and alive, almost happy, pulls her back, and Astaarit reacts the next time her _arvaarad_ pulls at the leash. This is battle, she must remember, as she steps forward.

 When they cast it is simultaneous, green against blood-red, and dance their own dance around the clang of swords.

_…_

_“Itwasaam,”_ the Inquisitor says sadly once they are done and Astaarit lay in her own blood. “ _Ma..Maraas shokra_ _…meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit_ …”

 This _basra_  is trying to recite the death rites, her blighted hand cool on Astaarit’s heated forehead. She has not been without her mask in ages; the air on her cheeks is nice.

 Astaarit cannot take the pity in the woman’s eyes; her entire existence has been pity, pity, pity, in the guise of honor. She is _saarebas_ , there is no honor with her body split open with Fade. That is what she sees in her dreams; over and over, the magic taking her.

And look, now, at how she dies. The woman touches her with Fade in palm, and Astaarit may as well be split open as her hair is brushed from her forehead. She wishes they’d found each other outside, so at least she could die beneath the sun. It was still daylight; hours yet before the sun set this far south. Ah, she could have died in the _sun_ …

 The _tal-vashoth_ speaks sharply to the Inquisitor, but he is ignored. Somewhere beyond Astaarit’s vision, her _arvaraad_ growls curses with his dying breath. Then there is a grunt of effort and a sickening thud, and the _arvaarad_ speaks no more. The Inquisitor does not flinch, only strokes Astaarit’s forehead once more before standing. Little human looks so tall.

 “Sorry. _Ebasit kata_.”

 “ _Kadan_.” The _tal-vashoth_ stays out of view, his voice hardening. Now the Inquisitor turns to him, relenting as she nods. She does not look back at Astaarit, and Astaarit thanks Koslun for it.

When she came into her magic, she’d floated. Astaarit remembers it with a mix of excitement and fear; it had been her smile that had earned her the sewn lips. She has never cast with her voice, wouldn’t know how if she’d ever had the chance. Astaarit sighs through her nose.

There is little to reflect on of a life spent in the dark with magic whispering one’s ear. She’d never been able to discern the words. Never been able to ask if it was normal. Now, it did not matter.

 

 

Astaarit closes her eyes, and waits.

**Author's Note:**

> Arvaarad- The title of those in charge of saarebas  
> Basra - A slur for non-qunari  
> Imekari- Child, children  
> Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit - part of the qunari prayers "The tide rises, the tide falls."  
> Itwasaam - "We all fall." Kimani is trying to say "sorry," in another way.  
> Ebasit Kata- "It's over."


End file.
